


Sleep deprivation (Whumptober 2020)

by twofrontteethstillcrooked



Series: Whumptober [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Mutual Pining, snippetfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:13:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27072541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twofrontteethstillcrooked/pseuds/twofrontteethstillcrooked
Summary: Bruce closed out the file. He sat with his weariness for a minute, the odd combination of crushing weight and floatiness warring for use of his limbs and lungs. He turned his chair around only when he thought his expression wouldn’t show anything untoward, anything unnecessarily emotional, should his visitor be awake and watching.
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Series: Whumptober [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1975861
Comments: 4
Kudos: 69





	Sleep deprivation (Whumptober 2020)

If there hadn’t also been a hundred other reasons why declining ice sheet rates on planet earth portended ecological catastrophe, the mere existence of Grant Walker would be enough to make melting glaciers disastrous, Bruce thought grimly. For now the villain’s most immediate threats had been neut– Well, likely kicked down the road to be dealt with some other day. 

Bruce took a three second break to rub his eyes and then finished entering notes on the recent affair, while everything still seemed fresh enough in his mind to be worth recording and while he had self-control enough to stay seated and professionally inclined. Little else about him could be considered fresh, though he had taken a shower and brushed his teeth first thing upon arriving home after the long week away. When he emerged from the bathroom, Alfred almost – almost – sagged with relief to see that Bruce hadn’t lied: the blood he’d tracked in the front door _had_ been someone else’s.

Not that Alfred wouldn’t give him his patented stern warning about biological stains at some point in the coming week anyway. 

Bruce closed out the file. He sat with his weariness for a minute, the odd combination of crushing weight and floatiness warring for use of his limbs and lungs. He turned his chair around only when he thought his expression wouldn’t show anything untoward, anything unnecessarily emotional, should his visitor be awake and watching. But he couldn’t tell, really, if he was being observed; a shadow from the nearest staircase fell across the couch where Clark was lying down on one side. His bare feet sticking out into lamplight were the brightest objects in the space.

Standing up took more effort than it should have. Bruce found himself kneeling at the couch by Clark’s head, the interval between standing and arriving completely collapsed, as though Bruce were the one with superspeed. Clark was indeed asleep, or at least his eyes were closed and his breathing (conditioned? wholly learned?) was deep and regular. His jaw was dark. He smelled clean, like whatever triple-milled white soap Alfred kept in the guest baths. Bruce observed at some distance, and with some horror, his own hand coming to rest gently upon soft, just dried curls, his fingertips brushing one behind the shell of Clark’s ear before trailing to the pulse beating at the notch of his throat.

Dreaming, Bruce thought, pulling his hand away. I must be dreaming. He didn’t flinch when Clark opened his eyes; it was obvious Clark was dreaming too.

“You have to be more tired than I am,” Clark murmured.

“I’m not the one who had to punch multiple icebergs into the moon,” Bruce said, because it wasn’t as though an official and accurate accounting of recent events was needed here. 

Clark gave a small huff of laughter. His thumb edged Bruce’s jaw lightly; Bruce took pains not to shiver. Clark took his hand back, eyes tracking somewhere around Bruce’s shoulder. Perhaps he wasn’t sure Bruce was real, or maybe there were ghosts in the room only Clark’s extraordinary vision could perceive. It wasn’t something Bruce would be able to help him with at the moment. He felt incongruously pinned by the lack of eye contact and the pulse still visible in Clark’s throat.

When Clark looked at him, fully, Bruce felt his own throat tighten. All that was about to happen could be explained by a scarcity of sleep and the strange, watery-grave way dreams wavered. He still braced for it, the way he would have if plummeting from a great height. He wasn’t supposed to want to reach for Clark. He wasn’t supposed to have touched him.

“I’m glad you weren’t hurt,” Clark said. His thumb found Bruce’s jaw again. It appeared to be an effort to have his arm extended so. He swallowed. He wasn’t looking Bruce in the eye anymore but inward, it seemed. Very quietly, he said, “I’ve been in love with you for such a long time, I sometimes forget I’ve never actually told you." 

If Clark had been awake, Bruce knew, he would’ve heard the constriction in Bruce’s chest, the stutter in his breath. 

Even more quietly, Clark continued, "Sometimes it’s almost too heavy to keep holding onto.” His eyes were slipping shut, his hand dropping to rest on the couch, unmoving.

Bruce remained kneeling a while longer, watching Clark’s chest rise and fall steadily, until he knew he could keep from touching him further. In some other dream, they would wake up beside one another. The thought made his whole body ache as if he’d been beaten senseless. He stayed, and watched. He let himself, very slowly, imagine curling his hand around Clark’s wrist and falling asleep to the heartbeat held against his palm.


End file.
